Hiding Behind Memories
by emsaduem
Summary: Rose has finally begun the road to recovery, taking on field-work for Torchwood. An undercover job, however, brings her face-to-face with the stubborn, world-famous Sherlock Holmes. He brings back memories of a dark past Rose was trying to escape. Slowly, the rivalry turns into a friendship, which may become something more... Post-Doomsday. Before Sherlock Season 1. Roselock.
1. Chapter 1

It was barely seven on a chilly Saturday morning, with most of London comfortably tucked in bed, dosing. At this time, however, a certain self-proclaimed consulting detective was frantically pacing in his flat on Baker Street. Books and pictures littered the carpeted floor as well as the two chairs before the fireplace. A tense and stressed atmosphere clung to the living room, in which Sherlock Holmes, the world-renown detective, was working in. For the third time today, Sherlock paused in front of the most recent picture, make an aggravated noise, and move on. He resembled an art-lover who just entered the Louvre for the first time: desperate to see each picture but still leave time to digest it and appreciate each painting.

Mrs. Hudson silently climbed up the stairs, hoping Sherlock had fallen asleep last night. When his form became visible in the doorway, pacing in and out of view, Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily. Shaking her head and tsking under her breath, she slipped past Sherlock and into the kitchen. The table's mess was mostly confined around the microscope, giving the landlady some space for once.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said as she cleared the counter and dug out the kettle from the sea of rubbish. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement, too deep in his work.

They worked in silence, Mrs. Hudson waiting for the kettle by preparing a single cup and two saucers, one with milk, the other with tea, and Sherlock wracking his mind for answers. The sun continued to rise outside as the streets began to fill up with families and couples, lazily and slowly heading out for breakfast.

"Tea's ready," Mrs. Hudson announced. It was met with another grunt form Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson moved everything onto a wooden tray and began to move it into the living room, careful to avoid him. Knowing her job was done, she headed back into the kitchen, intent on making herself a cuppa.

Sherlock gazed at the back wall, where he had tacked on a map, pictures, addresses, and autopsy reports. Some extra detailed photos were scattered in somewhat organized section of the room. He was searching for a connection between these murders. The obvious one was the date and location. Each one happened on a Monday, outside the library, indicating the same murderer (or group of murderers, Sherlock reasoned) was involved. Sherlock had less than three days to solve the case before someone else died. The cause of death, however, varied.

Molly had typed up the first two autopsy reports, but the most recent one was still being made. Lestrade, being the thick prick he is, didn't invite Sherlock to the crime scene, leaving him to build off of nothing but photos. He was able to make basic deductions, but going off of only one sense left Sherlock feeling… slow.

The first victim, George Swort, was a middle-aged, working class man. From the pass card on his breast pocket, it was in the field of construction. The dark-circles under his eyes indicated family issues that left him exhausted. He had no kids and an alcoholic wife. The deductions ended there. Although the pictures were good, they lacked the detail Sherlock used to base his knowledge off of. The cause of death, however, was quite obvious. A quick, powerful, and _beautiful_, cut, if Sherlock could say so, himself. It would have to have been performed by a skilled assassin, who definitely didn't forget to take his weapon with him. George's worst criminal offense was a parking ticket. His hobby, Sherlock was able to find, was mostly revolving around electronics. This day and age, whose doesn't?

The second victim's pile was suspended on the mirror over the mantel. The picture portrayed another man, Andrew Lozban, on the pavement, a few mere inches from the first victim's location. This man was in his mid-sixties. It was easy to see he was a war veteran, and by quickly hacking into Lestrade's files, that deduction was confirmed. White, wispy hair outlined the former soldier, whose eyes were wide open and glassy. Many would say it sent a shiver down their spine, but Sherlock had already spun his attention to the autopsy report being held down by the skull. Although he had it memorized, Sherlock flipped to the first page and began scanning. The death was inflicted by many bullets, performed by an amateur. The weapon, however, was silenced, for no one in the library claimed to have heard it. The handgun could have been stored in a jacket pocket, thus making it another missing weapon. Unlike George, the detective noted Andrew had few files other than the basics: enough not to bring suspicion to himself. He also had no immediate family.

Sherlock gave a sigh, and plopped down onto his chair. The first two victims held potential, but lacked detail. They would have been easy to solve, if the third one wasn't completely different. The victim was female, still a college student. Her name was Clare Floreg, and she lived in a small apartment in downtown London. She frequented the library as well as the café across the street. She was found against the back wall of the same alleyway George and Andrew were found in. She obviously saw her attacker, and tried (but failed) to make a getaway. Sherlock, thankfully, did get to go to this crime scene. There were no physical wounds, but also no signs of poison. She was in perfect health, except for the pale tint in her skin. Her laptop bag was slung over her shoulder, but held no such device. This would have been Sherlock's next step, but first he required the autopsy report. The laptop's location would be tricky to narrow down, but the dumpsters and garbage of the immediate area would be a good stepping stone in the investigation.

These deductions were the most important ones. Sherlock could easily name details, including their dominant hands, where they lived, their ancestry and culture, or even their social status, including affairs, or even hobbies. For now, Sherlock mused, they were useless. Once the autopsy report was complete, he could finally begin the exhilarating quest for the serial killer. The case may be frustrating, but the thrill overwhelmed and overshadowed the stress. _Patience…_

Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, upsetting the tea in the tray, spilling some onto the wooden tray. Mrs. Hudson looked up in alarm to find him taking deep and steadying breaths. His eyes were closed, fists clenched.

"Oh, dear…" Mrs. Hudson muttered, preparing for the worst.

Sherlock surprised her by slowly standing, and headed towards the window. With precise and calculated moves, Sherlock picked up his violin. After plucking it and tuning it, he placed the violin under his chin and lifted up the bow with his right hand. The detective stared out the window at the street, closed his eyes, and let his fingers make the tune.

The melody was unexplainable, but beautiful. The notes wafted through the air, pouring out of Sherlock as if it was his very soul. The song was slow, but desperate as well. It felt like the song was itching to speed up and get to the loud and finalizing crescendo. Reigning in his emotions and music, Sherlock plunged deeper, his bow digging into the strings. The world was moving, but he was suspended, a fixed point with no end or beginning. Sherlock was absentmindedly playing, in reality deep in his mind palace, safe but stressed. Mrs. Hudson smiled and leaned back in her chair, her tea all but forgotten.

Sherlock's performance was cut off by his mobile's chime. Without missing a beat, Sherlock gently lowering his violin onto the desk, and reached into his trouser pocket. Skilled fingers flew over the screen, only pausing to allow Sherlock to read the text. A wide smile bloomed on his face before he stowed the phone into his pocket.

"Sherlock…?" Mrs. Hudson began to ask.

"Busy!" he called back, racing around the room.

Mrs. Hudson was about to snap at him, but he already gathered everything he needed, folded it, and stuffed it into his coat pocket, donning the article of clothing in the process. The blue scarf followed and soon Sherlock was ready.

"Where are you going?!" Mrs. Hudson called after Sherlock as he raced out of the flat at break-neck speeds.

She got up from her spot and peered out of the doorway. All she could see was the tail of his coat as he turned the corner. Her question was ignored. She sighed and walked back to the coffee table to pick up Sherlock's tea, which still lay untouched.

**Hey guys! I know I said I would post this up by the end of April, but standardized testing quickly got in the way of that. So, I'm testing out this story. Do you guys want more? If so, leave a review saying so! This story has already been plotted out, so I will never have any serious cases of writer's block for it that I have experienced from my other stories. I'm very excited, so please let me know what you think! If it gets a good response, the next chapter should be up by next week.**

**Let me just thank SquirrelWho, TheTempestTime, and TheWhealWeaves (I apologize if I spelled your names improperly) for inspiring me. I see that many of you have updated, and I am trying to find time for me to read them. I hope you enjoy my own Roselock fanfic. I apologize if I incorporate anything that may seem like it came from your fanfics! They are wonderful and beautiful.**

***takes deep breath* Well, I'll end my rant here. So, read on and the story is on!**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2-

With the door slammed firmly shut, Sherlock shot forward on the sidewalk. A couple and an old man had to side step the tall man barreling to a cab that seemed to pull up to the curb as soon as he walked out the flat. Often, it seemed cabs were magically _attracted _to Sherlock. A flick of his wrist and all of the cab population a two mile radius come racing to him. In one smooth movement, as if it was part of a choreographed dance, Sherlock slid into the cab. He spared only a glance at the cab driver to tell him the address of the hospital before settling into his seat. Unlike his usual routine of deducing the past, present, and (occasionally) the future of the poor cabbie, he held a staring contest with the window. He didn't look through it, but at the actual clear material, as if it held the answers to all his questions. _That is preposterous. Windows can't answer questions,_ Sherlock mentally chastised himself as his mind became poetically inclined. The cab pulled up to its destination, the jolt of the brakes fishing the detective form his reverie. Sherlock leaped out of the cab, throwing a few bills at the driver. To those who were truly interested, he won the staring contest.

With long, confident strides, he entered the building and climbed into the nearest elevator without saying so much as a 'hello' to the secretary that has been working for five years at the hospital. And although the man may have the best observation skills known to man-kind, he lacks the intelligence to use the skill in a social situation. The woman's name was Connie, which was written on the nametag she sported. Yet, when Sherlock was forced to seek out Molly or Lestrade in the hospital, he tended to ignore and snap at the poor secretary manning the desk when she attempted to point him in the right direction. Her name tended to switch from Connie to 'low-life of the human race' when Sherlock was involved. Either way, she always made sure to wave her hand when the rude man passed.

The secretary that met Sherlock when he stepped out of the elevator and into the morgue, however, did catch his attention. She was new and young. She was, also, warned by Molly about a particular tall, dark-haired detective that tended to forget his manners (if he possessed any).

A quick, methodical scan of the man's dark eyes revealed nothing of importance. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, which tended tilt to the right, indicating a right-handed writer. Being so young and new to the job, she was obviously a recent college graduate. Nothing truly astounding: Best of her class in University of Michigan. She was so obviously American, it was sickening. The phone perched on her desk was protected by a case painted with a British flag. May as well wear a sign saying, "Hello! I am trying to fit in!"

To punctuate his annoyance, Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved through the doors. The glass window showed Molly handing Lestrade a cup of coffee and nodding her head as someone spoke. _Hold on. Lestrade wasn't speaking…_

Sherlock shoved the door open. The cool air-conditioned air streamed towards him, blowing his jacket back. Lestrade rolled his eyes at the dramatic display. The detective just _needed_ to make an entrance. Sherlock, however, didn't pay any attention to the sandy-haired man, nor the mousy girl beside him. He proceeded to march up to the blonde woman examining the body. Her eyes widened as she backed off, her hands raised in a defensive gesture.

"Hey there!" She exclaimed, a scowl toying at the corners of her lips. "Is he always like this?" she asked, her question directed towards Lestrade

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed angrily. "Can you _not_ scare away all our new employees?"

Sherlock hadn't budged, but a scowl now dominated her face. She had short blonde hair, with brown roots betraying the bleached hair. It looked like it was done at home, while her nails and haircut indicated and expensive salon. Her make-up was simple, although the mascara and concealer around her eyes held the telltale signs of insomnia. Unlike most of Lestrade's coworkers, she wore a simple wool jacket over a tank top and jeans. A costume made for someone expecting movement. Considering most of the police staff over-dressed and restricted their movement, this woman obviously knew what she was getting herself into. Her figure was petite, but not model-skinny. Anorexia is obviously not the reason for her insomnia. The sweater was tight enough to show the detective developed muscles. Although the fabric made her look slightly larger than she is, Sherlock was sure the muscles weren't from work-outs, but from physically demanding work. Her face was familiar, making Sherlock's fingers itch with irritation. He _always_ remembered a face. She couldn't have been older than her early-twenties, but while her eyes were bright, they were only protecting the pain inside.

Something about her was… _off._

"Sherlock Holmes, meet Rose Tyler. Rose Tyler meet Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade announced weakly, waving his hand in indication to whom he was speaking to, while his temples were being massaged with his other hand.

"It's a pleasure," she politely answered, nodding her head and holding out a hand., which Sherlock decidedly ignored and instead narrowed his eyes.

"Rose Tyler?"

"The one and only."

"The Vitex Heiress?"

A sigh.

"Yes."

"Hmm."

Bells went off in Sherlock's head as newspaper headlines flashed in front of his vision. Gossip column overflowing with talk of 'the lost Vitex Heiress.' He remembered rolling his eyes, and shoving the information away for future reference. Thankfully he did. Sherlock had dismissed the girl as a simple and mudane gossip that would blow over. Eventually, she did.

He may have finally remembered who she was, but that uncomfortable itch in his mind remained. It was as if an alien aura surrounded the new detective, and Sherlock only hated one thing more than not remembering a face: not knowing.

Her background as described in the articles were weak. At that time, it hadn't interested him, but meeting the daughter of Pete Tyler was something completely different. She didn't have the air of a heiress. Rose looked like she had to work to get somewhere in life. Her slightly ruffled clothing and worn heel of her flats indicated a recent period of commuting. Since a taxi receipt was tucked into her trouser pocket, and the insides of her hands were slightly imprinted with a class polka dot pattern, Sherlock's best guess was a recent move. The only logical move would be _away_ from her home. _Interesting…_

"Now that we're finished with the unnecessary pleasantries, can you send your secretary away, Lestrade? We have actual work to accomplish on the case. God knows your detectives would be useless without me."

"Sherlock…" Lestrade growled under his breath, sending a worried glance towards the newest detective. She, however, blatantly ignored the comment.

Sherlock glared at her as she ignored him. She thought he was some simple minded human who she could _joke_ with? Rose seemed so comfortable with his personality. He practically marched up to her, glared daggers into her brown eyes, which remained steady against his chilling, peppermint blue eyes. He was a sociopath, and no one liked him. Sherlock preferred it that way.

"Sherlock? Were you listening?" Molly asked, the first thing she asked that day.

The man in question glared at the ground like a child and mumbled an excuse. Both girls cracked simultaneous grins while Lestrade moaned in frustration. With that, the Molly and the DI leaped into their explanation of the autopsy report, which Sherlock rudely swiped form Rose, before scanning it briefly. Before Molly could even take a pause, Sherlock was already swooping down on the body on the table like a hawk.

Molly's voice drifted off as she shrugged. She was used to being cast off like a tool. This was Sherlock she was talking to, she reminded herself, mentally chastising her silly heart for leaping to the conclusion Sherlock reciprocated those feelings. Rose sent her a sympathetic look, as if she knew what she was feeling. With a sigh, Molly headed off to the body to uncover it and allow Sherlock to examine it. Lestrade and Rose clustered around the table and peered down at the teen girl.

'Can someone remind me why this amateur detective is allowed in a morgue on her first day?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Everyone's heads shot up. Lestrade opened his mouth to comment, but a quite upset and frazzled blonde beat him to it.

"Amateur? I may be _new_ but that doesn't automatically mean I am suddenly below you!" she practically screeched. "I don't care if you were personally chosen by the queen for being the best detective because I was _allowed_ to come and if _His Royal Highness_ is not satisfied, then he can go throw a tantrum in his room and solve the mystery of why the universe doesn't revolve around him!"

The tension in the room was visible as Rose glared at a shocked detective. Well, what most assumed to be shock. For once, his mouth was closed and his body was stiff. With a '_humph'_ Rose whipped around and staked off to the desk to review the notes. Lestrade and Molly warily followed her, leaving Sherlock to contemplate this new bit of information. Sherlock, being the skilled cocky detective he was, prided himself in never being surprised, and this situation was no different. The provocation of the new girl was merely for experimental reasons, in which his hypothesis was confirmed. Bipolar disorder possibly stemming from depression. No, not possibly.

Surely.

**Thank you guys so much for your kind reviews! I'm so excited! When I saw ****_SQUIRRELWHO freaking followed and reviewed on my story,_**** I nearly emitted a high-pitch, girly scream. So, hats off to you, and my other fellow Roselock writers. Please let me know what you guys think of my portrayal of Sherlock. He's slightly different, because he hasn't met John. His friendship with John (and future relationship with Rose) will prove to change his personality. Obviously, by not much, for he's a large jerk when the TV Show first kicks off. So, yeah.**

**Oh! On a separate announcement, I'm not going to update this one for... maybe... a week? Ten days? I want to update ****Ascend********and plan out a few chapters for my other stories, which you should check out.********And this is to the guest that reviewed: thanks!**

**Reviews are much appreciated! So, read on and deduce for fun. (wow that one sucked).**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3-

The day was kick-started with the drone of the alarm clock on Rose's nightstand. She roughly shut off to avoid waking her brother, who was resting in the room next door. The electric clock read 5:45. With a lazy yawn, Rose rolled off the bed, landing on her feet. With the back of her hands, she rubs the sleep and nightmares from the inside of her eyelids. Nightmares tended to haunt her nights; it was better to pretend that nothing was going on.

Within half an hour, she was in the pristine, white kitchen, with the paper in one hand and toast in another. Her dad was already shuffling around, mumbling under his breath about the lack of coffee in the house. Every few minutes, he would remind Rose of _'the point of the job_' and _'to report suspicious activity immediately.'_ Rose would roll her eyes and bite in the buttered bread. She finished her breakfast, and upon doing so, went back into her bedroom to pack up the last of her belongings. Although it was just a job (one she was used to receiving from Torchwood), she believed it was high to time to buy a flat in the heart of London. Suburban Cardiff may have the open and wealthy mansions, but Rose was never comfortable living off of her father's money.

At 6:30, her parents stood at the door as a pre-ordered cab pulled into the drive. Jackie Tyler held a quite confused Tony Tyler, who had been awakened from his sleep, despite Rose's attempts to ensure otherwise. The moment, however, was not wasted, for he had run off from his mother the second she put him down, toddling about the house. It may have been amusing, but it delayed Rose's departure by another five minutes. With a slight, audible sigh, Rose tapped her foot on the stone walkway.

"Right," Jackie said, rushing to say her farewells to her daughter. And just like that, Rose's mother began to blubber, as if her daughter was not moving a few miles, but halfway across the world. Then again, in this family, that distance often seemed miniscule.

With a kiss to every member of her family, Rose walked to the cab, one that had already been loaded with her luggage. The cab pulled out, and raced onto the road, heading east towards London. Her flat was there modest, only containing two rooms, with a bed taking up most of the first room. A kitchen was pressed against the wall, while a small dining table sat below a low-hanging light fixture. The second room contained a bathroom. Her parents demanding to buy her something more befitting for 'the Vitex Heiress,' but she kindly turned down their offer. She checked her mobile for the time. Although it was a Saturday, she was going to simply try out her new job. Learning the ropes early on would benefit Rose immensely. It almost shocked her she would be working in New Scotland Yard.

A familiar thrill of excitement pumped through her veins, making Rose feel skittish in the confined cab. Thankfully, they had entered the beautiful city of London. It was almost identical to the one in her old universe. The Cybermen incident, as well as the zeppelins, had been wiped from the memory of most Londoneers. Her flat was about another five minutes away. She was making great time, for it was only 6:46, and she was due to clock in at the Yard at 7:00. The detective inspector, Lestrade (she had smirked at the odd, familiar name), had given her some leeway on her first day, but she made it a goal to arrive punctually.

While lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice her flat looming into view on the street until she was pushed violently to the right by the harsh parallel parking skills of the driver. Rose carried her luggage into her flat, paid the cabbie a little extra to wait for her, and began to unpack the necessities for her work day, those largely consisted of some Torchwood instruments, and her cell phone. After shoving the bags semi-neatly against a wall, Rose headed off to HQ.

Halfway through her trip across London, she received a text from Lestrade, instructing her to come to an address, which was attached. The cabbie huffed impatiently, but altered their course nonetheless. She responded to the text, assuring Lestrade that she would arrive and _yes, she would be there in five minutes _ and _no, she wasn't in the mood for coffee._

Finally, she arrived at her ultimate destination, which was St. Bartholomew's Hospital. When all payments for the extended journey were accounted for, Rose exited the vehicle. With confident, but restrained strides, she entered the building. She waved to a woman and said good morning, who's name tag said 'Connie.' She offered to show me the morgue, where Lestrade had asked her to show me to. I thanked her, and allowed the plump woman to lead me down the hallway and into the elevator.

"Lowest button, dearie," she suggested, indicating with her fingers.

"Thank you, Connie," she said, as she stepped into the elevator. She pressed the button and felt the change of gravity as the elevator moved downward. Luckily, no one was sharing it with Rose, allowing her time to gain the professional composure expected of her.

The doors open, revealing a dank (but sterile) hallway. Abruptly before her, were a set of double doors. She proceeded to them, opening them carefully, as if her brother was sleeping inside. A small hallway stood between Rose and the actual morgue, which was clearly labeled by a sign. In between, pressed against the left side was a young intern, scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper.

"No visitors," she robotically answered, as if she memorized the line.

"I'm Rose Tyler, and Lestrade sent me here," she countered.

The girl looked up, her auburn hair escaping the pony-tail. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she immediately jumped up in surprise.

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry!" she apologized. Her accent was obviously American.

"No problem. I'm new as well." Rose gave the stuttering girl a smile. She paused. "How did you know that?"

"Well, for one-" Rose began, but was cut off by the doors swinging wide open.

Lestrade strode in and grabbed her by the arm. "Oi!"

"Sorry, Rose, but I need you in here, now!" Lestrade nearly begged, dragging her into the morgue. Rose weakly waved at the auburn girl as the doors closed behind her.

"Where have you been?" Lestrade demanded.

Rose looked surprised at his harsh tone. "Excuse me?"

"And your-" only to be cut off by a small hand on his shoulder.

A girl in a lab coat, no older than Rose, was giving Lestrade a stern look.

"Sorry about him. He tends to get tense when Sherlock comes along," she explained, maneuvering the detective into a metal chair.

"Sherlock?" Rose asked, a smirk playing at her lips.

"Yeah," Lestrade growled. "Sherlock bloody Holmes. I hate asking for his help, the egotistical bastard. But in a case like this, I'lI need the genius."

Rose was staring blankly at him. The detective had just casually tossed around the name of the most world-renown detective as if it was a common name, such as John.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Rose asked, a teasing grin forming on her face. "As in the resident of 221B Baker Street, consulting detective?"

Lestrade nodded, quirking an eyebrow at the odd sentence. "Why? Do you know him?"

Rose burst out laughing and gasped between the waves of laughter: "Who… doesn't…. know…him?"

A look passed between the doctor and the detective. Both had slightly confused expressions as they turned back to the newest member of the crew. Rose immediately straightened out.

Knowing what she knew, Rose dared to ask, "Have you ever heard of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"

The duo shook their heads. "Are we supposed to?"

That was new. A universe that had living fictional characters. Either that, or those two were raised under rocks. She would be sure to research the newly found information when she would return to her flat. Shrugging off the odd predicament, Rose walked over to the cadaver.

"So why did you want me to come down here again?" Rose asked, pulling out the autopsy report propped casually against the body.

"We have had a recent stream of murders, and it seems…" he began, only to be interrupted by the double doors swinging open violently to reveal tall, dark-haired detective.

**Sorry for the giant gap in updates. I'm currently working on ****The New Addition****, and hope to finish it the weekend. Then again, I just downloaded this cool game, and tomorrow is Father's day...**

**Speaking of which, I wish you the best Father's Day! Make sure your father feels special and loved when his proudest achievement, fatherhood, is celebrated. My dad and I, being children at heart, are going to see How to Train Your Dragon 2. YAY! I'd like to thank him (although he doesn't read my fanfictions) for being awesome, and supportive. Although we fight and disagree, your philosophies have paved my road to success.**

**I'd also like to thank my beta, Lady Cocoa, for bearing with me and my awkward updates. So, read on and yay fathers (screw rhymes!)**


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